


Rebirth

by MagicFlyingSpud



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Batman - Freeform, Depression, Healing, Recovery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-24
Packaged: 2018-12-16 13:56:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11830140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagicFlyingSpud/pseuds/MagicFlyingSpud
Summary: The Batman began with the loss of two lives, and the mantle is passed onto another with the loss of two more lives. Now it's time for Bruce to pick up the pieces.





	1. Endings

The door bell had been thundering through the empty halls of stately Wayne Manor like a disagreeable newborn, its wails painful and unending. Bruce Wayne awoke to it finally, images of firearms going off plastered in his mind. A bad dream.

The bell rang for a perfect four seconds and then started anew immediately, as if the ringer knew when exactly to hit the button to chain the sound together into one long continuous annoyance.

This was unheard of within the walls of Wayne Manor.

Regardless of where Alfred was in the mansion, be it the foyer or the art gallery, he would always be there by the second ring. There was an energy to that spry old man that even got a rise out of Damien every once in a while.

Of course, that was over now. Two weeks ago. Cancer. Bruce’s strong hand holding onto Alfred’s withering one as it faded away.

Pulling the pillow off of his face, Bruce swung his legs off the side of the bed, reaching out to grab hold of a dusty glass of lukewarm water. No Earl Gray waiting for him this gloomy, overcast morning. He gently put the glass down and got to his feet, tossed on a bathrobe, and stepped over to the window.

Detective Harvey Bullock was pacing around in small circles while his partner, Renee Montoya, jabbed her finger into the door bell repeatedly. At least it was company.

In one more minute they would leave. Of course recluse Bruce Wayne wasn’t going to step out of his cave. Or perhaps it was billionaire Bruce Wayne was too hungover to walk on his own two feet. There were plenty of excuses.

But if Alfred was there, he would chastise him and invite the guests in despite everything else. The Wayne legacy was something to treasure, not to use as a crutch for the Batman to live off of.

A ghost took hold of him, forcing his arms to open the window, and an unfamiliar voice came from his dry mouth. “Give me a few minutes to get down there!”

Montoya looked up just in time for the window to shut on them. Even through the thick glass, Bullock’s complaints were received loud and clear.

He scratched the thick stubble underneath his jagged chin. It had more in common with sandpaper than hair at this point. That would need to disappear before he went downstairs; his grief, while acceptable, didn’t need to be in their faces.

The thought of coming downstairs as he was seemed like a disservice to Alfred’s memory.

Throwing on a casual brown sports-coat, Bruce imagined his future in the next few minutes: Serving lemonade to a man who hated him and tried to get him under fire against the Gotham PD. Fortunately for him, Commissioner Gordon would never allow that. Everything that Bruce had done in the past two decades wouldn’t have been possible if it wasn’t for Gordon.

His fist pounded into the door frame as he passed through it.

They were going to want to talk about Jim, and that was good.

Unlike with Alfred two weeks ago, Bruce didn’t have anyone to feel the loss with and grieve.

=BM= 

“What kind of music do you guys like?” Bruce asked, interrupting the awkward small talk that dogged at their heels on their way to the kitchen.

There was something strange in him being the one to show someone around his castle. Questions were posed to him that he didn’t know the answer to; why is this here? Who is that a painting of? Is that an original?

Alfred knew though.

He should have asked him before he passed on. Alfred loved that old house.

“You want to listen to music?” Bullock asked with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh, whatever you want is fine, Mr. Wayne,” Montoya recovered, elbowing Bullock in the gut.

“Thanks,” Bruce called out as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets. Absentmindedly, his right hand slapped the computer console lodged into the wall beside him and pleasant Tchaikovsky flooded the room. Waltz of the Flowers was always Alfred’s favorite. “Takes the edge off.”

Bruce placed two cups of hot tea before the detectives beside a pitcher of lemonade. Taking a seat at the table across them, he leaned back, bones grinding together, and looked up at them with an icy gaze.

“You want to know why some of my blood was found at Jim’s murder-site?” Bruce said coolly.

Montoya’s jaw remained locked but her eyes widening just enough, so ready to believe that it was him, and who could blame her? Bruce Wayne was upper crust garbage.

“Yeah, something like that,” Bullock slurred as he pushed the mug away from him.

Bruce’s mouth twitched for a second as he considered what to say. His mind too tired from disuse, he said what he needed to. “Jim was like a father to me.”

He wasn’t going to lie about Jim. He couldn’t.

“I didn’t know you had a relationship with him, Mr. Wayne,” Montoya said, highly alert and leaning forward. “He mentioned that you saved his life trying to catch a red light once, that’s about it.”

Bruce’s eyes darkened.

“Bruce is fine,” he said noncommittally.

“Sure,” Montoya responded, scribbling something in her notepad.

It was time for Bruce to elaborate, but the words hung around him in a fog.

“You holding up okay in here, Wayne?” Bullock shot back, his arms folded together on the table, noting the heap of dirty dishes in the sink.

“It has been a pretty intense past few weeks,” Bruce smiled despite himself.

Alfred was looked on as some sort of accessory to the Wayne Family Legacy, a symbol of wealth and affluence. No one seemed to really bat an eye when they learned of his passing.

To them, Bruce was just another out-of-touch, sad, rich boy who still needed to read the directions on the back of the pasta box.

“Could you tell us more about your relationship with Jim?”

Bruce looked up from his thoughts. Montoya was the one talking.

He shouldn’t have said anything. Jim wouldn’t have wanted him to, he would want him to preserve the Batman rather than blow it all to Hell over one singular upset.

Twenty years of fighting, living in this fantasy where everyone would stay alive for him, where they would be present.

This wasn’t how it felt when he lost his parents. Alfred may never have said his intentions out loud, but he knew what the old man wanted for him. He knew the places Alfred wanted him to go, the man he wanted him to eventually grow into.

The Batman was dead and it was time for Bruce Wayne to take his first steps in thirty three years.

“Yeah,” Bruce said briskly. “Hey, if you’re not going to drink your tea, could I have it?”

Bullock rolled his eyes and slid the mug over to Bruce. Bruce couldn't help but smile; messing with Bullock was something of a hobby.

He scooped it up and took a loud slurp from it, the water burning against his tongue, giving him that little edge. He looked Montoya straight in the eye. She leaned forward eagerly.

“Every New Year’s Eve, me and Jim would meet up and get coffee together.”

Montoya’s excitement faded quickly, but then a light went off in her eyes and she dropped her pencil. Okay. So that was out there now for them to do with as they pleased.

Bruce looked over to Bullock whose beady eyes stared questionably at his partner. Figures. Bullock would have flipped his lid if he had found out about the Commissioner and the Batman’s little annual ceremony.

“Am I missing something?” Bullock attempted to whisper over to Montoya.

“I’ll explain it to you in the car,” she said briskly. Eyes darting back to Bruce, a girlish shyness coming over her, she continued. “So what do you know?”

Bruce cracked a smile, a smile that wouldn’t look so hot with the paparazzi. It rippled across his face, twisting his features, the pockmarks and scars coming into the light. His smile.

Bruce’s voice dropped an octave. From a warm summer’s day to an unforgiving winter’s night.

“ _It’s no use going back to yesterday,_ ” Bruce recited, “ _Because I was a different person then._ ”

Bullock’s eyes popped open at that familiar voice. “You—“

In a city full of masked freaks and killers, some of whom dedicated their lives to particular literary references, it would make sense for the law enforcement to have brushed up their comprehension of certain novels; he had just given them the entire case.

Montoya nodded. “Thank you.”

Five minutes later, Bruce found himself alone in the mansion once again. It was for the best that they said no more to each other; it was just going to get all of them in trouble.

=KJ=

Hi! Thank you so much for reading. I'm going to be updating this weekly. If you want to find out what happens next early, I will always be one chapter ahead on my short story blog. unapologeticallymeatwad . wordpress . c o m


	2. Face to Face to Face

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce speaks with an old friend.

Gordon’s funeral passed by Bruce’s ears at a low hum. An eternal bullet whirring around his head like a pesky fly. Vague memories of Jim flashed by in his mind, but they came out like film strips that were exposed to light before they got to tell their story.

He wanted to remember the man he fought alongside, the man who without hesitation was always there to make things happen, a man who had given up everything just so he could fight another day.

Gotham City was a cesspool. There was no denying it. Without Jim and without a Batman, its future lied in ruin. Yet while this hovered at the back of Bruce’s mind, he couldn’t take his mind off a fallen tray of tea and crumpets, Alfred’s wide open mouth as he backed away in shock the night they learned that Jason wasn’t actually dead after all.

Something about that horror in in his eyes spoke to Bruce, coaxing him away from this world gradually. That hurt, that pain that was so personal to the two of them, could never be forgotten.

His feet were firmly planted in thick grass, his body within the reach of a tree’s shadow, surrounded by so many faces. Faces that came to him in articles and reports, facts and trivia and history about each of them scrolling by each solemn gaze, a necessity of being the World’s Greatest Detective.

Yet standing there felt the same as hovering in the abyss of a nightmare. None of this made sense, and this wasn’t fair to Jim.

Turning on his heel, Bruce left the cemetery grounds mid-ceremony, not daring to look back at some of the disappointed faces. Hopefully Montoya would understand at least.

Holding his jacket closer to his chest, he remembered a man he could talk to about pain.

~BM~

Arkham Asylum was an obvious ruse: a hellhole for the disturbed to disappear into. Bruce would like to say he wouldn’t wish it on his worse enemies, but there was no other choice.

He could still feel the shaking. Purple gloves clutching his cape, knuckles popping in and out, as a man in a green suit cowered at his feet. “Don’t make me go back there!” The Riddler shrieked. The best Batman could do for him was to gently hold his shoulder and wait at his side as the police came for him. It wasn’t what he wanted for them; he wanted them to get better.

Passing by the multiple cells was strangely nostalgic. Many faces he hadn’t seen in years, faces that he had personally punished, faces that did not dare walk in the light again.

“Is it okay if you give us some space?” Bruce asked.

“Yes, of course, Mr. Wayne,” the Doctor bowed his head, passing by Bruce to continue his rounds.

Bruce watched the Doctor get farther and farther away until he was just another shadow. Without looking into the cell, his stomach tightened as a piercing gaze watched his every movement.

“Alfred passed away,” Bruce said firmly.

“ _Sorry to hear that,_ ” The voice like chunks of gravel shattering against each other. Something human desperately trying to be inhuman.

Bruce turned finally to face his old friend.

A face split in two. The shadows perfectly concealing the good half, leaving the scarred side hovering in dead space. A calculated performance to scare off the newbies.

“I miss you,” Bruce said, his voice still steely, the genuine warmth coming off as a trick, a mockery.

Difficult to speak so candidly with someone he had known as a hero for so long before he turned to do harm. To a man that spat in the face of so many second chances.

“ _Haven’t seen you in a long time, Wayne._ ”

Chunks of flesh around Two Face’s right eye were missing, allowing it to float there like a ghost. At the beginning of his deformation, this was not the case. But overtime, it became apparent that Two Face had to become the phantom that only whispers spoke of.

It was when the jagged carvings appeared that Bruce stopped visiting. Of course, that was the time that Harvey needed him most.

Shrugging off Two Face’s stinging remark, Bruce continued, “I want to help you, Harvey. I know you’re still in there.”

“ _Feh,_ ” Two Face leaned back in the shadows, waving a scabbed hand at Bruce. “ _Can’t make decisions without my coin._ ”

Bruce checked his peripherals and stepped up to the keypad on Two Face’s cell. Two Face looked up at him silently as he punched in a number combination, not budging from his bed as the asylum wall entered and Bruce entered his domain.

“ _Didn’t think you had it in ya, Wayne,_ ” Two Face chuckled, explicitly turning so his scarred side was at a profile to Bruce.

Bruce frowned and pulled a beaten up silver dollar from his coat, dropping it into Harvey’s lap. Harvey looked down, scooped the coin up in his hand, and a sliver of Harvey Dent peeked over his scarred nose.

“Facial reconstruction,” Bruce said simply, eying the hallway. Any minute he was going to be escorted out and if Two Face were to say no, they would never see each other again.

“That’s not going to save me,” Harvey’s smooth voice said, raspy from the disuse, unfamiliar from the coarse mouth. “You know that’s not enough, Bruce.”

“I know,” Bruce replied, placing a hand on Harvey’s burnt one. “But it’s a start.”

~BM~

Gotham whizzed by Bruce’s window at a slow, calming pace, much unlike the blur he saw during a high-speed pursuit. Compared to that, this night’s drive was like wading through a massive block of jello.

He knew all the streets by heart. Every alley and hideaway occupied a tiny part of his brain. Yet passing through it so slowly, he saw something he hadn’t found in decades of fighting: a community. The people he had sworn to protect, getting off of buses and huddling closely with their friends on their dreaded walks home.

Something stirred in his heart in seeing them, and suddenly it felt strange to be driving a Lamborghini down the road, his arms locked into a ten and two hold on the wheel by a bulky suit.

It was the horn that blasted Bruce’s muted hearing, his elbows wedged against the wheel as sweat poured down his head. At some point, he must have pulled over. Shaking his head, he stiffly stepped out of the car, locking the door behind him, and leaned up against the door, wiping the matted down hair from his face.

Things felt so fuzzy. Time slipped past and offered no return. The world only returned to him below his feet when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

A sudden vision: His body twisting around, his fist slamming into the head of his would-be attacker, their body crumpling on the dirty street, his cape falling back around his shoulders, embracing him in darkness once again.

He had to fight it; this wasn’t the time.

“You okay, sir?”

A soft voice from the darkness. His icy eyes fell onto a middle-aged woman carrying two heavy bags of groceries. A kind face with rings under the eyes, lines around the edges. It was too hard to offer her a smile so he offered her his hand.

“You need help with that?” Bruce croaked.

Ten minutes after some awkward small talk, Bruce found himself alone again, exhausted somehow from helping this kind woman who worked part time at a grocery store because the paycheck from the school wasn’t enough. He longed to give her everything he had.

Stepping off of her stoop, he pulled his jacket off, ripping at his tie until it lay slack in his hand.

“That’s a nice coat,” a man slurred from a nearby stoop. His dry lips let a little gasp escaped him as the jacket and tie fell into his unconsciously outstretched hands.

Bruce’s watch found itself in front of a bored cashier at a nearby convenience store. His wallet on the ground. Shining black shoes in an alleyway. His wide chest somehow tiny and weak behind the sweaty shirt, undeveloped and hairless like a child’s. His gelled hair breaking from its mold and slowly falling into a mess.

All of this performed with pupils dilated into quarters.

A faint rustling snapped him from his trance. A passing of the wind and his ears pricked upward. The oft ignored send that almost ended the Batman in his green years.

Fortunately for Bruce, this was no enemy.

Smiling to himself, he walked calmly into the nearest alleyway.

“You’re going to have to get used to wearing a cape again,” Bruce quipped and a familiar pair of white eyes pierced the shadows.

_His_ eyes.

The Batman gazed over Bruce Wayne from his comfortable darkness, a soft jaw resting under the cowl.

Like seeing your kid in his graduation robes.

“Work in progress,” Dick Grayson shot back.

Dick’s charming high voice, soft vowels, hard consonants. Like the spry old man playing checkers in the park, not a care in the world as he waved to everyone, effortlessly making his way through life.

A better Batman. Someone for children to look up to.

“Are you okay with this?” Dick asked carefully, arms glued to his sides, concealed below the cape.

“Yeah. I think it’s a good call on your part,” Bruce said with sparkling eyes. His boy taking on the mantle once again. “You talk to Damian?”

“Yeah, he’s good for it,” Dick chirped back.

Bruce bowed his head. He always envisioned his living fantasy ending with some symbolic victory, perhaps a rehabilitation of a lost soul, or a heated rescue of a loved one, maybe even with a sacrifice to button the whole thing.

He made a promise to his family; he would become a bat. But perhaps this wasn’t his story alone, maybe the world needed more time with his creation for it complete the promise. Maybe he wasn’t strong enough. He was still so young yet there he stood, across from his son, holding back proud tears, veiling in the shadow of his personal nightmare.

“Need a ride?” Dick asked, eager to show off.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Bruce shrugged. “I’m just going to take the bus.”

~KJ~

Hi! Thank you so much for reading. I'm going to be updating this weekly. If you want to find out what happens next early, I will always be one chapter ahead on my short story blog. unapologeticallymeatwad . wordpress . c o m


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